Anchor Struck

Today ends the heaviest week of my life in a very long time. Monday Jude and I had our water wheel repaired, completing the replacement of our off-grid energy system. Tuesday we signed off on our wills, making the transfer of our resources much easier for our families. Wednesday I got an all-clear from my dermatologist. Thursday we had our dogs thoroughly checked out by a new vet, who fortunately practices near enough to a Popeyes Chicken. Yesterday Jude ran her weekly SMART meeting while I stayed home and caught my breath.

Friday was also the Marine Corps birthday, so please join me this Veterans Day to hoist one for all those who served, especially Eddie Weekfall, a boot camp buddy of mine killed in Vietnam. The Marines were founded in Tun Tavern in Philadelphia in 1775, and the running joke is that we’ve never been very far from a bar since then.

I have struggled with my time in the Marines since being released from active duty in 1969. It took me years to make some peace with my PTSD from what I saw as a casualty reporter near the DMZ. Jude’s love and VA disability has saved me. And, quite recently, I have drawn much comfort from realizing that what I did over there was the start of the grieving process for the families back home.

We didn’t send out a corpse until he had been identified by dog tag and confirmation by at least two members of his unit. The only one we sent as a BTB (Believed To Be) was because we couldn’t find any of the tag on his neck chain. He’d been hit in the chest by an explosive device. Marines usually laced a second dog tag in a boot lace, but, inexplicably, he was barefoot. He didn’t have much face left. I have no idea what his family was told, but his name is not on the Wall.

The horrors in Palestine are particularly horrific to me because it triggers memories of the civilian casualties I saw in ‘nam. I’ll never forget the child, burned by napalm and trampled by water buffalo, who looked at me and smiled as he died. When will we ever learn?